


The Problem

by Pimento



Series: Feelings Catalogue [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Related, Comedy, Cute Castiel, Destiel - Freeform, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Slash, Sweet/Hot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-02 23:06:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5267288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pimento/pseuds/Pimento
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Season 4 finale during Season 5.  Zachariah and Raphael are about, Cas has rebelled from heaven, but the Winchesters have yet to really understand their role in the coming apocalypse.   </p><p>Cas doesn't quite know how to approach Dean, with his not so little problem.  And Dean, as ever, struggles with emotions and making connections.  Hopefully it's sweet and funny, it's meant to be.</p><p>Any comments or suggestions welcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sharing

Dean closed his eyes and leant back against the seat in baby, relishing the warmth of the Autumnal sun slanting through the windows, and the fresh smell of trees. A little quiet time, dozing in the sun between shifts behind the wheel. 

Lucifer was free, but Ruby was dead, and Sam, well Sam was sorry. Not that sorry was really a word that carried the magnitude of how he felt. It was a partial win. They’d just keep fighting, but for now, just for a moment, he wanted to rest.

The rustle and warmth in his shoulder, pulled him back. “I do need to sleep sometimes ya know Cas,” he said without opening his eyes, corners of his mouth twitching up in a welcoming smile. “How the hell did you escape the archangel?” 

“We ran,” Cas’ voice belied his confusion, at what he thought should be self evident. “As soon as Lucifer was free, they became pre-occupied, and I did have a prophet of the Lord to guide me.”

“Oh, yeah,” Dean said, lifting his weary head and opening his eyes, “and where is Chuck?”

“Safe,” said Cas. “He is a prophet after all. He is one step ahead at all times.”

Poor Chuck, Dean thought. It was bad enough suspecting what was happening, without having a celestial heads up. “So, Lily-White, much as I’m pleased to see you.” He blinked as Cas actually swelled slightly at the comment, missing the mild sarcasm completely. “You don’t normally just drop in,” he finished lamely.

Cas looked … bashful. It was a comic sight. “I.. er.. I wanted to see you,” he said awkwardly. He was blushing Dean realised. Actually blushing.

Dean shook his head slightly, he was pleased to see Cas, glad he was alive. More than he had realised he would be. He’d been so caught up in his worry for Sam, that he had kind of allowed his affection for the angel to creep up on him unnoticed. “Anything else?”

“No,” Cas said curtly and vanished.

Dean sighed, thoughts of sleep gone, he turned the key and set the Impala back on the road. 

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Dean sank thankfully into a soft bed, still fully dressed, he didn’t even bother to kick off his boots. They were well protected at Bobby’s, no-one was better at protecting themselves than Bobby, this whole place was a warren of sigils, hex-bags and protective symbols. 

He woke as the early morning sun eked through the dusty curtains, a vivid impression of a hand clamped over his mouth and two deep blue eyes burning into his soul, seeking his trust, fresh in his mind as he opened his eyes. He dragged himself from the bed and headed for the shower. 

The water was a balm, it washed the dirt and eased his aching muscles. He soaped himself, and let his mind wander as he began to properly relax. He remembered the soft weight of Anna, as she sat astride him in the Impala, leaning down to kiss him. Soft lips and tongue, in his imagination she pulled the soft hairs at the back of his neck and tilted his head back, and he stared into… mother fucking Christ. Cas stared at him through the misty glass of the shower.

Dragged back to reality, Dean spun his back to Castiel. For his own part, Castiel eased a finger round the collar of his shirt, not really sure what to do. He waited patiently.

“A little space, Cas,” Dean said, his voice slightly squeaky. “You wanna, uh, wait downstairs or something.”

Cas blinked. “I don’t want to alert Sam and Bobby, that I am here. ” he said. His voice softer and more uncertain than normal. “ I need to… erm… I need to see you.” Dean glanced back under the dripping water, Cas was reddening again. “Alone,” he added lamely. “It’s a little… awkward.”

“Well, OK, but go and sit on the bed would’ya. Lemme finish my shower. And Cas, don’t do this again, showers and bathrooms, they’re private OK, like heads, private.”

Cas nodded and swished away.

Dean rinsed the lather from his hair and body. He grabbed a towel and left a trail of wet footprints as he padded softly back into the bedroom, stooping to grab clean clothes from his bag. 

Castiel sat rigidly, trenchcoat tucked neatly under him. Hands clasped in his lap. 

“So,” Dean said casually, “What’s up? Why just me?”

Cas sighed, he flicked a quick uncertain glance at Dean, and then looked away again, seemingly not wanting to look into Dean’s face. “Things keep happening. Things I don’t understand. To my vessel.”

Dean frowned, non-plussed. 

“Reactions to things,” Cas tried to elaborate. “That I have no control over.” He glanced down at his own lap, and Dean inadvertently followed his gaze, before rolling his eyes and looking away.

“My God, you’ve got a woody.” Cas flinched at the blasphemy. 

“I don’t see what trees have to do with it.” He growled at Dean, who chuckled to himself, amusement overwhelming his annoyance from earlier. “It’s not funny Dean, it keeps leaking.”

“Ah Jeez, Cas I didn’t need to know that.” Dean choked slightly. “It’s a woody, Cas, a boner, an erection. You know about sex, right? To know about sin, they must give you a quick run through on the mechanics. They do the angels and the bees chats with you, right? You’ve been watching humans for years, climbing inside their heads and you’ve never…” Dean shook his head disbelievingly. “Wait, wait, I thought you were like Ken dolls anyway?”

Cas met his gaze so briefly, genuinely puzzled.

“I thought you had no junk,” Dean said straightforwardly. “Ya know,” he pointed downwards vaguely.

“Oh, as a visage we don’t, but our vessels,” Cas paused awkwardly, assimilating the new language, “have junk. Normally, though, desires and urges, well they don’t effect us, we don’t eat or get thirsty. And it’s well, human heads are confusing sometimes. We see emotions, not the actions. Dean what do I do with it? I came to ask you, because it is more frequent when I think about you.”

“Alright, Cas” Dean spluttered a little, feeling confused and completely non-plussed. “Enough with the oversharing.”

Suddenly inspired, he leant forward and groped for a magazine under the mattress. There was no shortage of porn there, but Cas just stared at the images of naked women. He blinked a little, but mainly his face remained passive. "These are just naked pictures, Dean, I have seen naked bodies before. We do have art in heaven.” He coughed a little awkwardly, determined to continue. “Since I raised you from perdition, and after I returned to my vessel, it’s, well it’s been a little out of control and it’s getting worse. I don’t know what to do Dean.”

Dean pinched the bridge of his own nose, his head was beginning to ache a little, and he could feel the stirrings of hunger. “Cas, I need breakfast, and coffee… lots of coffee…” His voice trailed to murmur “and then maybe lots of whisky.” He looked into the pleading blue eyes gazing at him from an earnest face. “We’ll talk later, OK. Just erm…wait here till it… erm…just wait for me to come back, we’ll deal with …. Whatever the hell this is then.” He took his clothes with him and dressed in the hall, crumpling the towel into a pile in the kitchen.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Sam raised his head from a bowl of something that looked vaguely like rabbit food to Dean, used as he was to Sam’s healthy eating he was surprised Bobby had anything like it in the house. He grabbed himself a coffee, and slumped down into a dining chair, leaning his head on his hand.

“Rough night?” Sam hazarded.

Dean grunted. Sam was an expert at reading Dean, but sometimes it was best to just let him stew. Whatever it was, it would out, sooner or later.


	2. Everybody Knows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby is not impressed!

Castiel was used to being part of a garrison, spending time with angels. He had no-one to talk to, no reference point to calibrate what was happening. He felt lost, and for some reason, feeling lost made him want to talk to Dean. 

So Cas sat quietly on the bed, waiting. He had known his connection to Dean was growing. When he had dragged Dean back from perdition, he had to grip so tight, too tight perhaps, far from gripping back and clinging to salvation, Dean had fought him off. What had started as a tricky mission to retrieve a human soul, had forged a link, a link that had translated itself into a handprint, such a human mark, and yet it was made by an angel. Him. 

And then there was this. Cas looked down at his own lap dispassionately. Quite apart from the leaking, it felt odd. It snagged on things, and it was hard to walk and it made his pants an awkward fit, and it had a mind of it’s own. He snapped his fingers and his pants appeared neatly folded on the dresser. For some reason, this was far more comfortable.

Cas moved the magazines to one side, and began to smooth the wrinkles out of the bed. Humans slept, they seemed to enjoy sleep. Cas had visited enough of their dreams to know that relaxing was something that humans enjoyed. Curious, he moved gently on the bed, getting used to the sensation as it gave underneath him. It was soft and spongy, but the springs were noisy. 

Cas reclined stiffly, not sure what to do with his elbows. A multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent has no use for elbows, and lying down was new. The bed was strangely comforting, it smelt of Dean, a combination of whisky and travelling, that was peculiar to him. 

It was unfortunate that Bobby happened to walk past at the precise moment, that a half undressed Cas, lay fully reclined on Dean’s bed, with an erection straining the front of his bright white shorts. Arms folded behind his head, stockinged feet crossed at the ankles.

He was two steps past the doorway, before the image caught his brain, and he retraced his last two steps. “What the hell…,” he growled, taking in the pile of pornos, which had fallen to the floor.

Cas looked at him cautiously. “Dean told me to wait here.” Bobby’s eyebrows rose so high they almost disappeared above the line of his cap. “We’re going to deal with it when he comes back.” Cas added helpfully.

“Deeeeaaaaan,” Bobby roared from upstairs, and both Dean and Sam jumped in the kitchen. Sam looked amused and quizzically at Dean, who for his part just put down his coffee and rolled his eyes. “Damn.” 

“What did you do?” Sam asked, trying not to laugh. 

“I didn’t DO anything,” Dean said exasperated. “It’s Cas. He has a ‘problem’.”

 

Castiel sat apart from the others, fully dressed now, in one of Bobby’s easy chairs, looking utterly dejected. Everybody was mad at him, well except maybe Sam, who seemed to be enjoying himself.

Dean glared at his brother. “I am so glad you find this so amusing, Sam.”

“You’ve gotta admit it is fricking hilarious.”

“Oh yeah,” Dean snarled. “I’m being stalked by the Angel of Dick, it’s a scream.”

“I’m not…”Castiel began to protest loudly. He shrank back from the look of pure venom that Dean shot at him. “I’m not a stalker,” he finished quietly to himself, and disappeared.

Bobby looked at Dean, exasperated. “Just great. Whatever the hell is going on here, we have big problems. Lucifer is out and the demon hoards are gonna be making hay. Whatever this is, we need him, so you just better find a way to…” he stopped lost for words… again, as he had been many times during the day, as they talked in circles. “Sort it, whatever it takes, sort it. Just don’t do it in my spare room.” He stomped away.

Sam smirked. “I knew you would not be so beautiful for nothing,” he mocked, swigging at a beer.

“You,” Dean snapped, “can just shut your piehole.”

Sam shrugged, stood up with a slight scrape of the kitchen chair and walked away, still chuckling.


	3. Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean, Cas, Baby and soapy water...

Weeks passed, demons died, Lucifer continued to reek havoc, research continued, Bobby remained resolutely grumpy and steadfast, Sam spent his life on tenterhooks, hung between his own guilt and Dean’s reprobation. Dean, as ever, when he wanted to avoid dealing with emotions, Dean returned to his first love and routine to occupy his mind.

He gazed down at the pristine, now finely tuned, engine, stowed the last of his tools in the carefully ordered toolbox and kicked it shut. He wiped his oily hands on the rag hooked into his back pocket and tossed it aside, carefully dropping the hood. The day was hot and sticky, with the threat of an impending storm and Dean wiped the sweat from his face on his forearm.

Castiel watched from his vantage point, high amongst the scrapped husks of broken cars, as the tall figure, strolled casually out of sight.

Cas waited patiently.

The car waited expectantly. The dry dust, grimed dirt and insect spatter of long journeys and hard time spent on the road coating her surface.

Dean returned, dropping a bucket full of soapy water to the ground with a gritty crunch. The water swirled and sloshed over the rim. With one smooth movement, that threw an arc of water droplets dancing into the air, playing in a myriad of tiny rainbows, Dean swung the sopping sponge, across the roof and streams of soapy bubbles and rivulets of water flowed over the dark paintwork and dribbled down the windows.

Cas stared through a broken windshield, concentration etched on his face, as he analysed the sensations and motives of yet another human emotion for his catalogue of feelings. He had, of course, long understood that humans had them, he knew what they were and their definitions, but to actually feel them was something quite different.

He watched as Dean lavished his attention on the car. Cleaning her with firm gentle strokes of the warm sponge. He wanted to be the car, he realised. Envy. It clanged into place, another emotion categorised and noted for future reference. Castiel, Angel of the Lord, was jealous of a 1967 Chevy Impala.

“Cas!” he started at the sound of his own name. “If you’re gonna hang around, you may as well gimme a hand.” Dean’s voice was low and amused.

Cas appeared beside him, before he had even consciously thought about doing so.

Dean had not lifted his head or stopped his work, he merely nodded towards another bucket, the chamois leather hit Cas in the gut with a damp squelch before he had chance to react and he caught it on reflex. “You’re on rinse detail.”

The tap was old and it squeaked as he turned it, water thundering into the bucket and a mist of fine water droplets flew into the air, condensing where it touched his face and hair. He waited until the bucket was almost full and turned it off. He lifted the bucket and as he walked across the dirt back towards the compound it swayed against him, feeling like a thing alive and the water in it, jerked the vessel back and forth, spilling and soaking his trouser leg. It felt icy cold.

By the time he reached the car, Dean was washing the remnants of the dirt from the chrome trim and Baby was steaming slightly in the sultry heat of the afternoon.

“All yours, “ Dean smirked, lifting his head from his task and stepping back.

Hesitantly, Cas copied Dean’s earlier motions with the sponge, but the chamois clung to his arm, and his trench coat stuck to the damp sides of the Impala, he hitched it away awkwardly.

Dean walked towards him, seized him by the shoulders and physically turned him around. “Take it off.” Cas blinked, uncomprehending. “Lose the flasher mac, Cas,” Dean explained patiently. Cas scrabbled to comply and Dean bundled the now sopping brown material around his arm and draped it over a nearby car. With quick practised movements, he loosed Cas’ tie and drew it from his neck. Cas stood impassively, hands at his sides, fingers flexing in the gooey chamois leather, which continued to dribble water down his leg and onto his shoe. His eyes darted from car to bucket and around, anywhere but on Dean.

Dean tugged Cas’ sleeve, pulling his arm straight out, popping the cuff button and rolling up his shirt above the elbow. He lifted his eyes briefly from his task and smiled under his brows at the look of mild confusion and panic on Cas’ face. The bright blue eyes were focussed intently on the bucket.

Dean grasped the chamois and dropped it into the bucket, splashing them both with icy water, he repeated his task, and a flat hand to each shoulder to pull Cas square again, he took a step back admiring his handiwork. Cas met his gaze awkwardly, but did not speak, and Dean grinned at him, before leaning in and, oh so casually, undoing his top button, pulling the collar away from the clammy skin. “Relax, Cas, I'm not gonna make you wear Daisy Dukes,” he chuckled.

Cas did not really hear him, his whole being seemed to jolt, as Dean’s fingers and knuckles brushed lightly against his neck. Every nerve ending jangled and clamoured for attention, the intensity of the sensation amalgamated and pulsed into a pleasureable, twitching awakening and his ‘problem’ returned. Cas froze, terrified that Dean would notice and this precious, delicious moment of connection would be lost.

Dean pushed him gently aside, seemingly oblivious, and seizing the bucket he poured the contents carefully over the roof of his precious car, replacing soap suds with clean water, the paintwork gleamed through the patina of years of attentive polishing. He wrang out the chamois, and putting it gently into Cas’ hand he guided him to the car to demonstrate the art of streak free rinsing.

Dean was talking again, and Cas tried hard to draw himself back from his internal exile, but he was losing his grip and he felt rather than heard Dean’s voice rumbling through his back into his chest, as he slumped away.

************************************************************************************************** 

Castiel lay on the cot in one of Bobby's rooms, while the three men stood around him, not really sure what to do.

“So he just appears after three weeks, and you make him wash your car?” Bobby’s gruff voice was incredulous. “What else did you do?”

“Nothing, and I didn’t make him wash my car. He …”

“Angels don’t just faint, Dean.” Sam said. 

“And how the hell would you know. Angels aren’t demons… that’s where your expertise…”

“How many different ways do you want me to say sorry?”

“I don’t know, how many different ways did you screw Ruby?”

Castiel stood in a beautiful room, he could hear the conversation, it surrounded him, echoing peculiarly off the walls. He paced backwards and forwards and felt his way around panels and behind paintings searching for an exit. He had tried three times now to zap out, but he was fairly certain that whatever had brought him here, had him pinned without powers.

Sounds of scuffling and a punch making contact scratched in the air around him. Bobby had obviously been trying vainly to separate the two of them, but someone made contact. 

Castiel threw his hands over his ears as a massive bang blasted his ear drums. “Ejuts, this ain’t helping none. Would you just quit it, before I smack you both into a week of Sundays.”

“Don’t worry I’m leaving,” Dean snarled.

“Great, just leave us here babysitting your boyfriend!”

“Screw you, demon fucker.”

“Angel whore.”

“Dean! Sam! Gah… I give up on you two.”

"Hello Castiel," the voice was unctuous and familiar, his skin crawled and he turned to see Zachariah in all his middle management glory. "Enjoying the show?" Castiel drew his angel sword, and prepared for battle. 

****************************************************************************************************

Dean grabbed his keys, and drove. He needed a bar and oblivion. And maybe sex… with a woman… he added to himself firmly.

****************************************************************************************************

Either someone had cracked his head in the night, or he had the mother of all hangovers. He rolled onto his back, tangling himself in the sheets and pushed his lower arm firmly against his burning eyes. Hell, he felt like hell. The night before came back in vague dribs and drabs. And then he remembered why he’d got drunk in the first place. 

Castiel, God’s own little tax accountant. The little nerd had turned his back on his whole world for him, and fucked up as it was, he needed help, he’d asked for it and he, Dean, had freaked out the first time and abandoned him. The look of dejection and hurt on a face which didn’t normally look vulnerable. He flushed with guilt. 

And then the second time, he’d flirted with him, until he drove him into a collapse, just because he loved teasing him so much.

Dean sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. He found praying so awkward. “Cas,” he croaked. “Earth calling Cas. Cas, can you hear me? Look, buddy, I’m… erm…” he gave another big sigh. “I’m sorry, all right? You freaked me out a little, OK. When you’re ready, I’m here for you, whatever this is we’ll work it out.”

He waited, and nothing, no vague feathery rustle, no subtle breeze, no gently warming tingle in his shoulder signalling Cas’ presence. He reached up to touch the sensitive bubble of the mark, and felt nothing but his own smooth skin. He stood up and lurched to the bathroom, suddenly nauseous. His own shattered reflection peered back at him, the mark was gone.

 ******************************************************************************************

Dean woke from the nightmare with a start. Hand on his own shoulder, he realised the raised mark was still there. His heart pounded, and he panted slightly, relieved. What the fuck? Why was he relieved? He closed his eyes, in the semi darkness, just thinking, until the undeniable mixture of liquor and exhaustion dragged him back to sleep.

He woke again with a raging thirst, and a plan. A fucked up, totally unbelievable plan, but he’d made his decision, and Dean, when he had made his mind up… well short of an apocalypse… nothing changed Dean’s mind. All he had to do now, was find Cas.

He grabbed his phone, and checked his messages, four from Bobby, none from Sam. He listened to the gruff voice and the gist of the message. Cas was gone again, just disappeared, muttering something about Zachariah and a beautiful room.

 *********************************************************************************************

Chuck opened the door, he was busy trying to put his house and his life back together. “Hello, Dean. I was just trying to work out how the hell I was going to write this story in a way my readers would believe!”

Dean had been quite stoic, Chuck thought, as he had explained a few things, from his vantage point as Winchester Chronicaller, and now they came to the crux of the issue, as Chuck understood it.

“A soul transfer?... with an angel?”

“No, not a transfer, an impression. That mark he left on you, you left the same on him. You’re connected. You need each other.”

“Ok, I’m beginning to get that, but what I need from you now… where is he? Where is Inspector Gadget hiding? He’s not coming when I call.”

“Well you did hurt his feelings,” Chuck began.

“He’s an angel, Chuck. He doesn’t have feelings.”

“He’s an angel, with a soul connection to a human, worse he’s an angel with a connection to…” Chuck trailed off. He wasn’t quite sure how to point out quite how completely inadequate Dean was at doing emotions. At least not whilst keeping all his teeth. 

“He’s creating a catalogue,” Chuck said, partially changing the subject on grounds of self preservation. “Learning human emotions. He just hasn’t quite got there yet with love, he’s pretty confused.” Chuck swallowed hard, half expecting Dean to swing at him.

“Right.” Dean said. The plan twisted into shape in his mind. It was reckless, but this was an all or nothing kind of situation. 

Chuck decided to keep quiet on the subject of the little bombshell about lust…

 ******************************************************************************

The witness saw Dean coming, the familiar wide kneed gait approaching him from the other side of the street. This was a test of his faith, the witness was sure of this. The last time he had prayed because of Dean Winchester, he had woken up from an angels touch on the side walk with empty pockets and spray paint on his shoes, where the local kids had decided he would look better with blue feet. But this was God's work and he must comply.

“Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed…” he began vehemently. 

"Be careful who hears your prayers, little man,” a gravelly voice declared, and he did not feel himself fall.

Dean for his part was seized roughly by the arm, and zapped back to his motel room 50 miles away. 

Castiel’s blue eyes blazed with a heady mixture of anger and concern. “That was reckless, Dean. Zachariah is still looking for you. Raphael would dearly love to get his revenge on me, on any of us... what were you thinking?”

Dean pulled his arm free, sharply. Relief that Cas had come, mingled with his normally belligerent reaction to being manhandled, and a lingering memory of his own exhilarated reaction to being slammed into the wall in the beautiful room in much the same way as he had just been forced into the door in this motel room, making him feel intensely aggressive. “I apologised to you, over and over, Cas. I called for you, over and over.” He snarled. “What else was I gonna do to get your attention?”

Castiel sighed, and his shoulders relaxed. “You always have my attention, Dean.” He said softly, looking weary. He could feel all too well the familiar sensations and constrictions developing, and was trying very hard to ignore it. He began shifting from foot to foot and trying not to look at Dean. “I’m an Angel of the Lord, Dean, even if I have rebelled. We are not supposed to be… to have urges and I have …”

Dean raised his hand in a gesture of impatience. “Cas. Sit.” He pushed him firmly, and Cas sat stiffly onto the bed.

Dean sat beside him. “Right,” he said. “I apologised and I meant it. Now where the hell have you been? And why didn’t you answer me.”

“I… uh…I was researching.”

“Researching?” Cas practically shrank. He suddenly looked terrified, and he began to fiddle with the buttons on his trench coat. “Stop that!” Dean snapped. “What the hell do you mean, you were researching? Researching what exactly?” Dean cocked his head to the side, and Castiel paled under the scrutiny.

“I started reading about birds and bees, and it is not very helpful. Birds don’t even have junk. And I do not see how hives and honey would help at all...”

“Cas,” Dean said “stop talking, just stop”

“But, I…”

“I said stop.” Dean said firmly. “I talked to Chuck.”

Cas stared at his hands resting in his lap. The blush was spreading. No place to hide. 

“I…”

“I SAID STOP TALKING.”

Cas jumped, he wasn’t enjoying the humiliation and shame, but his vessel, well it was. His mind recalled the feel of the bucket twisting in his hand, and realised with a lurch that he was the polar opposite of a bucket of water. The vessel was leading this dance. 

He shifted uncomfortably, desperate to relieve the pressure and the now familiar sensation of constriction that Dean and his presence caused.

“It’s not pretending, it’s protecting,” he whispered, head hanging, “Human interactions are so complicated it’s little wonder you are all so pre-occ…”

Dean had seized his chin so quickly, that Cas was stunned. His eyes flew wide. He was pinned by eyes and fingers of equal strength. He panted slightly. “I said… stop…talking.” Dean said softly, his voice more powerful for it’s sudden quietness. He looked unbelievably smug. Cas swallowed hard. His hands, which had dropped to the bed at his sides, to stop himself falling backwards under the sudden pressure, gripped at the bed clothes. He was always aware of every sensation, but somehow it brightened and sharpened still further when those deep green eyes were on him.

He felt utterly vulnerable. Another new classification. Each new sensation had a name, and it’s own set of rules. It was like learning a very complicated version of chess, only without understanding what all the pieces did, and just when you thought you had one bit mastered, someone flipped the board, and added monopoly to the game. 

“Dean, I…”

“Shhh.” Rough fingers brushed his lips. “Close your eyes, Cas.”

The kiss was soft, hesitant and unbelievably tender. Not at all what he expected from Dean, who did everything with the force of a hurricane. He allowed himself to fall backwards. Elbows causing their usual momentary confusion, until he just let his arms melt like everything else.


	4. Rejection

Castiel sat quietly watching the ocean roll. He breathed in the salty air, and felt it calm and soothe his grace. He decided there and then, that he did not like feelings. Naming them and learning them did not help the situation any. There was no less pain in knowing the cause. Rejection, was the cause. The reaction, this emotion was … he still didn’t have a name for it, besides, pain.

He closed his eyes briefly, as if that would stop the moment, Dean’s face had changed and he had drawn back from that kiss, replaying in his mind. Castiel sighed, “Yup,” he thought, hearing the echoes of Dean’s voice in his head as he thought it, “Feelings suck.”

The waves were losing their blue, the colour, which had reflected his eyes, was draining as he watched. Castiel stood, his trench coat flapping in the wind, hair driven back by the oncoming storm. It was too late to run, it was almost a relief.

“Hello Castiel,” said the familiar voice.

 

The boys were enjoying a beer. Things were difficult between them. Sam was beginning to think he would never be able to make amends, guilty and ashamed was his emotional default. It was frustrating and he wavered between being angry with Dean, and wanting to ball his fists and cry. He woke every morning with a leaden core and despite brief flashes of the old companionship, which made the loss even more painful he spent all his waking time in stasis, feeling like a teenage boy. Dean did not trust him one iota. And yet here they were, drinking beer in companionable silence, each working on their own research. 

There was something very odd going on with Dean… and Cas. Neither he nor Bobby knew quite how to deal with it, or what ‘it’ was, for that matter. A curse? A spell? A possession? They’d looked for symptoms, theorised about cupids and weird incubus. Dean was beyond unco-operative, unsurprisingly. 

Dean put down his paper and sighed. “What?” he snapped, looking up at Sam.

“I…uh...” he started to stutter, and shook his head in frustration.

The air in the room suddenly filled with a curious static, like the aftermath of a storm, and a very battered and bloodied angel, with clothes singed and still smoking slightly appeared before them.

A weak smile and a look of faint relief, wiped from the face as his eyes rolled back in his head, and Cas started to fall.

They had both leapt to their feet and lunged from their respective positions to catch him as he slumped between them. Sam was the first to speak. “Cas, what the hell happened to you?”

He rallied at his name, and the bright blue eyes swam into focus on Sam’s face. “Raphael,” he managed to utter before collapsing theatrically into Dean’s arms.

Dean gripped him tight with one hand, but his other arm would not work, his shoulder was a seething rage of burning nerve endings. Sam as ever, read his brothers awkward movements and grabbed Cas under the arms, heaving him towards one of the queen sized motel beds. Dean stood, eyes hazing with pain, and clamped his other hand to his shoulder. The pain and paralysis cleared as Cas seemed to finally lose consciousness.

“Raphael certainly did a number on him,” Sam observed. “Why did he let him go? Did they follow him?”

“If they did, Sammy, do you honestly think we would still be breathing? Or that Cas would do something as stupid as to bring them here. Dumb ass would rather die than betray us.” His voice was oddly light. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Cas yet.

“I’ll go for supplies,” Sam said. For the past three weeks he had not been able to move towards a door or venture outside, without Dean making an excuse to follow. Now he did not even look up, he just began to gently flick the smouldering clothing aside, removing the remnants of the burning tie, and jacket, which had all but disintegrated anyway.

The door closed quietly behind Sam, and Dean slumped slightly. He closed his eyes, briefly against the painful sight of Cas’s battered and bloody face. He healed so quickly normally. Dean did not think he had ever seen Cas sleep, until this last few weeks, let alone lie bloody and unconscious. “Dude, you’re the terminator,” he mumbled, as much to himself, as to Cas. “What gives?”

Cas had been missing for a month, since his lastest sudden dramatic departure from the motel, since Dean had found the whole thing just too damned weird. The brothers had been searching, whilst they took on demons and all comers as new alliances and activities reared up amongst the monster fraternities. All fired up with Lucifer’s return and the impending apocalypse, but there had been no sign of Cas, no sightings, no reports. Nothing.

Dean had worked his way through his limited repertoire of emotions, bewilderment, irritation, followed by exasperation, dissolving into a quiet rage, all masking his gut wrenching worry that the nerdy little dude had done something stupid because he, Dean Winchester, had behaved like a dick. He winced at his own unfortunate phraseology. He had even prayed, when he was alone. It was, he found easier to apologise to an empty room.

Cas had given up everything to help him save Sam. He’d proven himself loyal and courageous. Hell according to Chuck, he hadn’t ‘run’ from Raphael, he’d imploded into chunky soup, and something had brought him back. The fury Dean felt towards Raphael at this moment was all consuming. He swallowed, clenched and unclenched his fists, and forced his tense jaw to relax. He felt the same sort of protective love for Cas that he normally reserved for family. But then he realised, that was what exactly what Cas had become. 

Dean Winchester, the world’s big brother, had found himself another kid to look after. “Yeah,” he thought wryly, “you keep conning yourself, Deano. How many times have you kissed Sammy, full on the lips and seriously thought about…?”

He looked back at the sleeping angel, he was out for the count. Dean grabbed a towel and filled a bowl with steaming hot water. He began gently washing away grime and drying bloody smears. He had no idea what medical attention an angel needed, but instinct born of long practice, lead him to clean and dress his wounds. 

By the time Sam returned, with food, disinfectant and bandages. Cas lay clean as a new pin and tucked up under a blanket, whilst Dean was sat moodily contemplating a glass of bourbon.

 *************************************************************************************************

He sat in Baby, listening to the birds in the warm sun, when he sensed Castiel was beside him. He looked tired, hollow eyed and depressed. In the distance, Dean could hear a threshing machine, harvesting a crop. “Dean, you have to wake up. You and Sam have to leave. I can’t hide us for much longer. Go now, Dean. GO!”

The sound of threshing was getting louder. Dean woke to find the room rattling and shaking around him. Sam was already on his feet, and together they grabbed Cas under arms and feet, and staggered out of the door towards the car.

The impending storm seemed to be chasing them, as they drove hell for leather away from the motel and into the night. Sam shouted down the phone to Bobby, who suggested they high tail it to the nearest safe house. A log cabin, some fifty miles away. It was a nerve racking hour. Tornados and lighting storms lit the sky across the plains, like giant scanning machines. Cas drifted in and out, mumbling in Enochian, and then collapsing again into silence. Each spell of silence longer than the one before, and each time the storms came closer to pinpointing them.

Finally they dragged his recumbent form up the steps of the cabin and dropped him onto the only bed. Where he seemed to sink even deeper beyond their reach.

**************************************************************************************************************

The brothers sat either side of the freshly lit fire, Dean gazing into the flames, and uttering monosyllabic answers to Sam’s best efforts to get him to talk. Finally in exasperation, he snapped. “Dammit Dean, would you just talk to me.”

And to his eternal surprise, Dean, the man who would rather glue his tongue to a rock than share a single emotional thought normally, finally started to try and explain the unthinkable. Sam, although shocked, and more than a little perturbed at what he was hearing, was consumed with a mixture of disbelief, sympathy and love for his brother, whilst fighting the urge to start wisecracking. 

Understanding blossomed between them, until Sam said suddenly and calmly. “This is a good thing Dean, you can finally let me stand on my own two feet, and make my own mistakes… you have a new kid brother to look out for.”

Dean blinked at him… “I never…”

“Yeah, OK, a new dependent. You ever try to do some of the shit you’re considering with Cas to me, and we will fall out forever.”

 **************************************************************************************************

In the morning, Sam beat a tactical retreat back to Bobby’s. There was much to be repaired, physically, mentally and emotionally and a quiet cabin in the woods, was the ideal space. Monsters, demons and vengeful angels could wait.


	5. The Cabin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok, smut. Let me know what you think. Good, bad or indifferent, I can't get any better at this without some feedback. :-)

It had been a full four days, since Sam had driven away in the Impala. Dean had chopped every log within a five mile radius, the wood pile was overflowing, every inch of the cabin was clean, the devils traps and angel sigils were as clear and neatly marked as if they had been drawn with a calligraphy set. The kitchen was tidy, everything sorted into cupboards and pinned within easy reach according to usefulness. 

Dean was carrying a huge armful of logs into the cabin to set the fire ready for the evening chill and keep the boiler stoked, sweat pouring off his skin from the exertion on yet another sultry afternoon. If Dean had not known better he could have sworn the weather gods were conspiring to ensure he was shirtless and shiny when Cas came round.  
“Dean,” the voice was cracked and painful, hoarse and dry. Cas was on his feet and leaning against the door jam, wavering slightly. 

Dean rushed forward, ready to catch him if he fell, and began fussing and clucking, ushering him back to bed. Cas waived him aside, and steadying himself he headed for the bathroom. This puzzled Dean…if you don’t have urges and you don’t drink… why do you need the bathroom? His answer was the sound of running water. Dean mentally shrugged, apparently Cas was going to shower. 

Castiel decided that a shower was one of the simplest and greatest pleasures on earth. The water needed to be hot, and it needed to be powerful enough that it stung slightly. A thousand tiny dancing needles which peppered and prickled. He exulted in the hot water drumming on his head and neck, the slight itch in his nostrils and the squelchy sounds when he poked his fingers in his ears… these days Castiel was a child in a playground, as he prodded and poked his own vessel, to see what reacted and how. Well apart from one bit, he steered clear of that! And showers? Showers, click, were contentment.

Dean laughed aloud when he realised that Cas was singing in the shower… moreover singing Back in Black, with his gruff, tuneless voice. It was adorable. He found it adorable. Dear God, he found Cas adorable. 

He couldn’t bear to see him hurt, he found his irritating little habits and the frustration they caused amusing, he loved the look of confusion on Cas’ face when he was working out some new human experience, or missing a cultural reference. And by God, he loved teasing the little jerk.

He crept stealthily into the bathroom, and grinning like a ten year old, he yanked the chain on the toilet. Cas squealed as the water temperature switched suddenly up and down. A hand groped around the curtain for a towel, and Dean smirked as Cas emerged dripping wet, slipping slightly as he stepped out of the huge cast iron bath tub.

“How ya doing Cas?”

“I thought,” Cas said slowly, “that bathrooms were private.”

They stared at one another, until Cas ran his fingers through his wet hair and turned to grab another towel, breaking the eye contact. Forgiven, for this and so much more, Dean sighed, and as the door closed, he stripped to climb into the shower himself.

Clean, body and soul, Dean pulled on his jeans, and wandered back into the main room. Greeted by the smell of cooking, he looked quizzically at Cas, who was holding a big cast iron pan, and tipping scrambled eggs onto a jadeite dish. “What? I can’t get hobbies? I like cooking, it’s… cathartic.”

Dean laughed, “Cas, you are fulla surprises.”

Cas watched him eat. “S’ good,” Dean said, scooping another mouthful casually with a fork, as he leaned against the kitchen drainer. 

“More than can be said for your table manners,” Cas admonished, sitting down on the battered old couch.

“Bite me.”

“Is that an invitation, a request, or a challenge?” The blue eyes twinkled with most unangel like mischief.

Dean shook his head chuckling. “Flirting like a demon, Cas. Another new hobby? I know, I know,” he raised his hands in mock surrender, as Cas gave him that, now familiar, vaguely disapproving look. “Research.

He dropped his plate into the sink, and wiped his hand on a dishcloth. “So,” he said, suddenly feeling, and looking, awkward. Cas looked up at him from the couch, face pleasantly, blankly smiling, eyes wide and innocent. 

Dean cleared his throat and tried again. Feeling as though he didn’t quite know how to stand, or where to put his hands and feet. “Cas… I… er… I… I guess what I’m trying to say is…”

Cas folded his arms, and inclined his head slightly.

“Dammit Cas,” he closed his eyes, and pinched his nose. “Don’t make me say it…” 

He was sure that Cas had not moved a muscle. He didn’t need to look up to know that Cas was watching him with a dumb puppy dog expression of sympathy, waiting patiently like some smug school prefect, for the naughty boy to crack.

“All right. I’m sorry. You happy, now.” He jumped out of his skin, when Cas touched his hand, and gently pulled it away from his face. “Jesus, Cas.”

Cas’ involuntary tic at the blasphemy, made Dean’s mouth twitch into a smile and Cas’ eyes narrowed slightly. And then they were falling onto the bed, as Cas zapped them into the mid air over it. 

Dean squirmed, green eyes blown wide in shock and awe. Cas pinned him effortlessly, smiling down, enjoying the switch of control and the reaction it was eliciting. Dean opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a word, soft dry lips closed over his. He froze just for a second, before relaxing into the sensations, tongue meeting tongue, intoxicating, dizzying, sending jolts of pure pleasure through his whole body. 

The tingle of arousal was undeniable, he wanted this, he wanted Cas, but still, falling for an angel. Cliché. Stood on its head. This angel is a dude. He screwed his eyes tight shut and tensed again.

Cas shifted his weight slightly, dropping his knee between Dean’s thighs and applying the tiniest amount of pressure by dropping his hips. Dean arched and moaned, doubts, thoughts all lost in the surge of physical sensation. 

Soft, strong fingers closed over his mouth, and his eyes flew open. They gazed at each other, this was trust. The first human emotion Castiel had ever learnt, and they had learnt it together, in the beautiful room. This time the question was different, but the answer was the same. Heart pounding, more nervous than he dared admit, Dean nodded.

They kissed again, slow, deep and tender. Gentle fingers crept across his stomach and chest, scratching lightly, leaving little trails of fire across the skin, which prickled and tingled. “Cas,” he groaned. “Cas… I can’t…I want to… but…”

Cas smiled a crooked funny little smile, vaguely triumphant, but also tinged with sadness. “Always hiding,” he said softly. “Even from yourself.” He leant forward, harsh whisper tickling Dean’s ear as he said, “Do you think you can hide from me, Dean? You want to be controlled. We both know it. You love it and hate it in equal measure. You think I don’t understand? I do, and I’m way ahead of you.”

The pulse of arousal this time, was undeniable. The problem appeared to have become a contagion.

This time the kiss was brutal, bruising and needy. Teeth and lips clashed. Dean tugged at Cas’ clothes, but Cas seized his hands, and interlocking their fingers, he gently forced Dean’s arms back above his head. He leant forward again, teeth nipping at jaw and neck and ear. The little mewling sound that escaped Dean’s throat, was one of the most fascinating sounds he had ever heard.

He pulled back and stared at this beautiful, conflicted, complicated, emotionally damaged and utterly infuriating human, struggling with his inner demons, which were every bit as real and dangerous as the black eyed mofos he had been fighting since childhood. And in that moment, Cas would sacrifice almost anything to give him peace and happiness… Love clicked into its allotted slot of understanding.

Their gazes interlocked and Cas gently pulled his hands clear, he moved in for another long, hard demanding kiss, that left Dean’s vision sparkling with a thousand tiny stars from lack of air. He could resist no longer, and his hands snaked up across Cas’ shoulders, snatching at the short black hair at the back of his neck. His touch was electric, but Cas did not want to be distracted from his mission. He tweaked a nipple lightly, and made a subtle nuhuh noise. 

Dean ignored him and pulled him harder into the kiss. The tweak became a pinch, sending ripples of pleasure and pain through his already hypersensitive body. Cas broke the kiss as Dean obediently dropped his hands to the counterpane. 

“Too many clothes,” Cas growled. 

Dean lifted his hips, dragging his jeans down over his hips and thighs, never moving his eyes from Cas. The eye contact seemed to last forever as they drank each other in. Cas moved slowly, deliberately, leaving a trail of soft damp kisses from Dean’s neck, pausing briefly to bite the hard nub of nipple, and using his bright white teeth to graze over the skin, while his hands lazily traced the lines of muscle from hip to hip. Dean wasn’t the only one who liked to tease. 

He lay as still as he could, aching for Cas’ touch. His body strained, the hand print on his shoulder was one exploding firework of sensation. He felt as if air turbulence would throw him over the edge. The urge to touch himself was unbearable, but Cas seemed to sense his every move, before he even twitched, and he didn't want this to pause even for a second.

Cas was right, of course, Dean had plenty of experience of playing with control in his chequered sexual history, and he did love and loathe it in equal measure. He lay as still as he could, letting the sensations wash over him, tiny human mind blown apart by an angels touch.

The ache was becoming painful, the pressure for release was building, and then just as he felt he really couldn’t take it any longer, with no warning fingers flicked over the straining flesh. A deft circlet stretched, stroked and pulled, leaving him bucking and breathless as his hips jerked up from the bed.

“Fuck, please, Cas, please…”he was almost incoherent as he begged. He looked up and realised the evil little bastard was grinning at him, eyebrows raised. Catching him looking, Cas quickly rearranged his features, and in his most patronising tone said, “I believe you may be finding this pleasurable, Dean.”

“Cas, you son of a bitch,” he croaked. “I can’t take anymore teasing.”

“Oh, I think you can,” Cas said quietly. “And what’s more you will take it, and be grateful for it. Unless of course, you’d like me to stop? Oh look,” he smirked, “your’s leaks too, or are we oversharing?”

Dean stared at him openmouthed, as Cas actually giggled, and with another rapid flick of his delicate fingers, had him keening and mewling again. To Cas it was a beautiful sight, Dean, his Dean melting because of what he was doing to him. A few times more he squeezed and pulled and it was all too much, the orgasm hit Dean like a breaking roll of surf, white hot and searing it ripped through his whole body, and he realised with a twinge of embarrassment that he had screamed aloud.

Dean struggled to swallow, body thrumming, oversensitive, ears buzzing and eyes rolling slightly. He raised his head and saw that Cas was staring with puzzled fascination at the sticky strands that covered his hands and stretched between his fingers. 

Dean started to laugh weakly. “I warned ya, Cas. You can’t say I didn’t.”

“Hm,” Cas nodded solemnly, biting his chapped pink lip, in deep consideration. “It seems I slightly underestimated. Does it always explode like that?”

Dean felt his stomach muscles cramping as he laughed. “I thought you’d been researching, you ass.” He propped himself up on his elbows, as a thought occurred to him. “Have you not actually, ya know, yanked your own chain yet?”

Cas stared at him blankly. “Have you not popped your cork? Done ‘this’ to yourself?”

The old hesitant Cas was back, he flushed, and looked away, with an anxious little jerk of his head. “Masturbation is a sin, Dean,” said a very dishevelled angel with cum all over his hands.

Dean was sure he was going to pop a rib laughing, that was if he didn’t suffocate first.


	6. Not the Ideal Solution

Castiel is back in the beautiful room, he’s fighting. The two angels are holding him here, and Zachariah sneers at him. Dean lies unconscious in the corner, and Castiel is not sure whether he is even breathing.

Zachariah rolls him over with his foot, and crouches down. He grabs a handful of hair and deep green eyes open slowly. Castiel struggles harder now, “Leave him alone, Zachariah.”

“Aw,” Zachariah is clearly enjoying himself. He slams the head into the floor, and stands, brushing his hands together with a moue of distaste, as if he is cleaning something dreadful from his palms. “Castiel,” he drawls slowly, “you really should teach your pets better personal hygiene habits.”

Dean coughs and tries to lift himself off the floor. Zachariah kicks him swiftly in the ribs, two or three times. And then smoothes his jacket and straightens his tie.  
Castiel feels his own face tighten. He knows if he gets free, he will tear Zachariah apart.

And this is hatred. Click.

He regrets not being able to finish this the last time they were here in this room, but he’d barely escaped that meeting in one piece himself. Waking on the cot at Bobby’s and taking himself into hiding, well away from the Winchesters until he was sure he wasn't bringing danger with him.

He can see Dean desperately trying to drag himself up, battered, bloody, as Zachariah pauses… “We’ve tried cancer and broken bones before, how about boiling blood…”

 

Dean woke up, momentarily disorientated, he realised he was not alone, but it was no casual conquest that shared the bed, it was Cas. “Angel’s don’t sleep,” the voice was Sam’s echoing through his head. Apparently they not only sleep, they also have nightmares, for Cas was definitely in the throes of a nightmare. Dean had seen enough of those over the years from comforting Sam in the middle of the night.

“Cas, Cas,” wake up, “Cas, you’re dreaming.”

The eyes opened, huge in the muted blueish hue of the moonlight. For a moment they didn’t focus properly. Then the face moved from horror to pensive. “I don’t dream, Dean.” He stated matter of factly. 

“Well, you don’t sleep either, but here we are.” They blinked at each other for a moment, each deep in thought.

Cas sat up, Dean’s hand slipping from his shoulder, where it had been resting since he shook him awake. He was sweaty and his damp hair clung to his forehead. Trying not to show how perturbed he was, Dean climbed from the bed and padded softly towards the bathroom. 

The low level of the electric bulb, still seemed intensely bright to his night vision, and he squinted against it, as his eyes adjusted. He washed his hands, and dragged the residual water over his face, rubbing his tired eyes, before checking his reflection in the mirror. He was still adjusting to this strange reality. He was still not convinced it was reality.

He grabbed the toothmug, swilled it and filled it with fresh water from the tap. With a last quick glance at the mirror he turned out the light and stubbed his toe on the door. Swearing quietly under his breath he stood gently rubbing it, the moonlight cast long shadows in the main room, and he returned to the bedroom. 

He put the mug down on the nightstand next to the bed, where Cas lay slightly awkwardly on his side. “I brought you some water…” he paused “Cas, you OK? Cas!”

The recumbent figure rolled onto his back exhaling deeply. Dean took in the shamed face and his eyes drifted down the bedclothes in disbelief. “Really.” He said exasperated. “Now? Midnight camping? After, a nightmare?”

Cas did not even look at him, he just stared at the ceiling. Ignoring the fact that he didn’t understand half of the sentence, he guessed what Dean was referring to…“I told you,” he snapped in frustration. “I have absolutely no control, it comes back whenever… I thought…” he swallowed, heavily, looking panicky again. “I thought after yesterday…it might have…”

“It don’t work like that Cas.”

“But the research indicated that ejaculation would satisfy…”

Dean chuckled, only Cas could possibly think it didn’t matter WHO came. “I take it your research didn’t involve any practicals?” Cas stared back at him blankly. Dear God, Dean thought, it was a wonder Cas had survived the world at all. From his experience of other angels, although they were unemotional, they weren’t such total innocents. Not like Cas. No-one was quite like Cas. He smiled and shook his head.

“Right, Cas, there’s only four ways I know to drop the flag pole,” he held up his hand to silence Cas, who was about to speak. “To cure your ‘problem’” he continued. “Neither of us wants you dead. There’s not enough bromide in the world to dose you up. And that leaves either your own hand…” it was his turn to swallow hard, and his voice was barely audible to himself, “or…”

Cas looked at him expectantly. 

Suddenly, Dean was enraged, he could not believe this craziness. This was not him, he was a beer-swilling, free-wheeling man, who found sex when he wanted it. Not some kinky baby sitter with a thing for kid brother types, however much they looked like an adult. “I’m not explaining this to you. I just can’t. Stop looking at me like that. I hate puppy dog eyes, it’s the same shit Sam pulled on me as a kid, when he wanted to play soccer, or act in some damn play, or steal my porn. You know what you did to me… do it to… to… to little Cassie.” As soon as he finished the sentence, he felt vaguely sick. Cas had recoiled from him, completely at a loss as to why Dean was suddenly so angry with him.

The bright blue eyes blinked under the onslaught. “Don’t you dare zap out of here,” Dean snapped suddenly, alarmed. “Don’t you dare.”

Cas pulled himself back into a sitting position, pulling his bent knees up under the bed clothes, it wasn’t really very comfortable, but at least it hid the … flag pole. He grinned suddenly, feeling very proud of himself, he understood the reference. He beamed at Dean, but then he felt uncertain again, and the question was out of his mouth, before he could really consider whether it was the right thing to say at this moment.

“Wouldn’t you just bring down the flag, surely the pole stays…”the rest of his sentence was lost as Dean suddenly threw himself at Cas with a ferocity he hadn’t shown since he’d tried to punch him all those months ago in the beautiful room.

They wrestled briefly, the nightstand tipped sideways and the tooth mug flipped across the room, spilling its contents in all directions. They rolled over several times, Cas trying to grab at Deans arms without hurting him. Eventually ended up on the floor, still entwined in the bed clothes, with Cas gripping Dean’s arms to his sides, vainly trying not to let him hurt himself. 

“Alright, alright, let me loose.” Dean growled. He stood up gingerly and righted the night stand, scooping up the mug and slamming it on to the top. “I am not boyfriend material, Cas, not for you, not for anyone.” He sat heavily on the bed, and dropped his head into his hands. “I screw up every relationship I go into, and… “ his voice was breaking. “I don’t wanna drive you away too.”

Cas stared up at him from the floor, looking a little pathetic. “I’m not going anywhere. Not right now. This thing really hurts when you bang it on the floor, and I’m …” he searched for the word “…tangled.”

Dean lifted his head, the humour of it tickling him, in spite of himself, “That’s it? I go all Gilmore Girls on your ass and the best you got is bedclothes and aching nuts!” The self-pity induced rage passed as quickly as it had built up and he helped Cas untangle himself from the bed clothes. 

“Hey,” He chuckled. “You found another cure!” He blanched slightly under Cas glare, as the angel gingerly moved back onto the bed. “So, what was the nightmare about?” 

“Zachariah was killing you… “

“Nothing new in that,” Dean glanced over his shoulder at Cas, who was busy pulling covers back over himself. He was enjoying ‘bed’. It was officially his second favourite thing, after showers.

“He was using you, to punish me. Using my feelings against me. Dean, I’m not sure I can cope with human emotions, they are so confusing, and dangerous. I really never quite know what to do next.”

“Join the club, buddy, join the club,” Dean sighed.


	7. Who knew.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think that might be the end...

The bed next to him was empty, when he finally woke. He stared at the rumpled covers, and resisted the urge to roll into Cas’ spot. Damn it, Cas’ spot? What the fuck was he doing to himself. The door opened and Cas carried a mug of coffee and another pile of fluffy scrambled eggs. His new found speciality. 

Dean could not remember the last time he had breakfast in bed, oh he ate on his bed often enough, but to actually have someone bring him breakfast like this?! Cas had taken himself off to shower. Today’s music of choice?... Dean strained to hear the deep voice reverberating in the bathroom…possibly Reo Speedwagon…yup, Can’t Fight This Feeling Anymore. He sighed and took his plate back to the kitchen. Apparently Cas’ new found love of cooking, didn’t extend to cleaning up.

One of the great things about being on the road, no dishes. He turned on the taps, and flooded the dirty pile in the sink with water, enjoying the slight squeak from the bathroom, as he disturbed the temperature equilibrium again. “Gotcha! This time it’s your own damn fault,” he muttered to himself.

He felt on edge, he knew that the only solution, long term was to find Cas an outlet for his ‘problem’. A little light self relief wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, he chuckled at the memory and shook his head with amusement. “Masturbation is a sin, Dean” he said aloud, with a passable impression of the serious tones.

Buying it, was always a possibility, but if Chuck was right, the connection was with him, not just anyone. Besides, although he didn’t really want to admit it, he didn’t want Cas to be with anyone else. He shrank back from the thought in his mind. He had been determined once, bottled it, and that had led Cas to the beating that had brought them to this cabin in the first place. If he was going to do this, he had to go through with it.

His inner monologue was so intense, he did not hear Cas’ quiet approach, and he jumped sharply, dropping a mixing jug onto the floor. It fell through the air, bounced off it’s own rim, before the handle caught and it shattered into thousands of tiny fragments. 

“Great.” Both of them barefoot, and surrounded by a multitude of tiny cutting implements. “Just god-damned perfect.” Dean slammed the dishcloth into the bowl in temper.

Castiel froze. The sense of relaxation from the shower gone. He felt vulnerable. Already filed. Apprehensive. Click. Startled. Click. A little bit afraid? No not fear… something else, humiliation maybe? He glanced down. Aroused. CLICK.

To Cas’ horror he realised Dean was turning, eyes locked, one with a look of horror and panic, the other perplexed, and then the eyes rolled. The blush began in his neck and spread upward and through his cheeks, they burned hotter than holy fire. Dean’s face set in grim determination, and he used the dishcloth to sweep the glass aside, closing the distance between them with one step, seizing Cas by the upper arm.

“I…I can clear that up,” he started to stutter.

“Then do it,” Dean snarled, shoving Castiel in the direction of the bedroom. Cas swept the broken chunks of glass away with a flick of his arm, as he stumbled through it, Dean striding behind him. He turned as he fell through the door and began backing away, arms raised in supplication, palms exposed. The back of his legs hit the side of the bed, and he fell backwards, onto the counterpane he had neatly smoothed after his shower.

He lay awkwardly, propped on his elbows, the ‘problem’ forming an obvious bulge in the borrowed sweatpants, legs dangling over the side. When had the little jerk had time to make the bed, it was like he was nesting or something. “We need to get you some clothes of your own,” Dean muttered, “and I don’t mean another cheap suit.” Cas looked vaguely hurt.

“Off” Dean demanded, “The clothes, Cas, take them off. Not get off the bed.” Cas had begun to scrabble to move. “T-shirt, too.” The face was set hard, and Cas stared at him warily as he undressed. He wasn’t sure why Dean was so mad with him, but the ‘problem’ was practically twitching with every growl and snarl. If it wasn’t so utterly overwhelming, he might well be interested in analysing it.

Dean lifted his own shirt over his head, smooth muscles rippling under the skin as he stretched his arms upwards. Cas reached out to touch the anti-possession tattoo. Only to find his fingers gripped in a warm fist. “No. Not this time, Cas.” The voice was much more gentle now. “This time it’s your turn.”

Cas took a long shuddering breath. He looked terrified, he was terrified. Dean dropped his hand, and grabbed the side of his neck, with long strong fingers, thumb running over the soft lips. “S’OK, Cas. Lie back.” Still he hesitated, breathing heavily. “Lie back!” The change in tone was so sharp he jumped, and moved quickly up the bed. He swallowed hard again, and the bright blue watchful eyes followed Dean’s every move, as he walked calmly out of the room.

Cas, did what Cas does best, and waited. For Dean. 

Dean composed himself outside, his inner pep talk keeping him going. For all his courage in facing monsters, death and pain, he could still tie himself inside out with angst over the simplest emotional connection. That was why he went for the easy option of one night stands and flings on the road. One or two had caught him off guard, and he’d developed relationships, but they always ended in pain and recrimination and sometimes even death. He’d certainly never embarked on anything with someone he regarded as such a close friend. His ally. His go to guy. The fear of loss was nothing new, but losing someone to death, was distinctly different to losing them to the recrimination and indifference that followed a break-up. Enough, he shrugged, time for action.

He walked carefully around the shards from the jug, grabbed himself a beer, and drank it as he reached into the kitchen cupboards and grabbed a couple of handy items, just in case. He was determined to make this good, now he had decided to do it at all. 

The anxious little face, glanced back up at him, and one hand gave a vague little wave of hello, raised barely an inch above the bed, fingers trembling slightly. Cas hadn’t moved at all, from his position propped against pillows in the intervening minutes. 

Dean looked at him, a tiny hint of smile on the firm lips, a slight crinkle around the eyes. “Ground rules.”

“1. I say it, you do it. 2. No flying douchebag moves." The wild look of blind panic, made him almost lose it, and start laughing. “3. Stop looking like I’m about to steal your puppy.”

“I don’t have a pup… oh a joke...Always a joke.” The attempted smile was so forced and pained, that Dean gave in to the laugh.

He sat on the bed, and moved slowly in. “Relax, Cas,” The rough fingers stroked his cheek, and pushed the straying fringe of hair back from his forehead. The forefinger tipped his chin up ever so slightly. Cas’ gaze slid away, the blush was returning to his cheeks, and his brow furrowed. Dean dipped his head, the inclination so tiny it was almost unnoticeable, but to Cas the instruction was as clear as day, as if he had spoken. Look at me.

Blue on green…the irresistible draw. He could hear his own heart pounding, in his chest, it echoed in the ears, pulsed hard in every vein and artery. The vague numbness in his fingers, the knots and twists in his stomach, he felt the brightness of the world as his pupils dilated, and the minute beads of sweat budding on his skin.

Anything… everything… just to make him smile…Every thought, every time, it all comes back to… Dean. 

He is an angel, he was made for obedience, service and protection. Now he understands. 

He had been on Earth for millenia with the garrison, he had lost track of just how long, it all got confusing once man started messing with calendars, and tried to keep track of time. There had been so many battles. But always the angels were there, to police, to follow his fathers will, to protect his precious protégé from demons, from each other, from themselves. So many lost souls, then the messages from heaven had changed, he had watched his siblings become selfish and arrogant. 

He had begun to doubt. He was not the first. But duty and obedience, it is the core of an angel, his core. He could not function without it.

Still he rebelled, but to rebel, was to tear out the core of his being, to leave behind everything he knew, and take a leap of faith, but not faith in God, or faith in myself, but faith in one man.

He didn't regret it, would do it again, but when you create a vacuum in your very being, something must fill it. 

He IS obedience and duty. He knows nothing else. Now he understood. This is why. The core of your being is your purpose, your greatest desire. It drops into place. To obey. Lust. Click.

His attention snapped back with a lost look. Dean was looking at him, expectantly. Questioningly. The blue eyes already impossibly large, widened further. “I said, do you understand?”

“I understand,” Cas smiled that beaming innocent smile. “I truly understand.”

Dean pulled a wtf expression, quite certain that the question and the answer were not actually connected. “Cas…”

“No Dean, I understand… I truly understand,” he was gabbling now. “It’s the essence of an angel to obey, I…”

“Cas, shut up!”

“But…”

This time Dean didn’t speak, his lips silenced the pronunciation, and muffled the intonation. The words were gone from Cas, in an overwhelming blur of new sensations. His head felt light, and there seemed to be a direct line from his lips to his crotch, which had disengaged everything else, so that every touch of lip on lip, or gentle probe of tongue, every suck and nibble at the corner of his mouth, resulted in a glorious pulse of pure pleasure, that kept his arousal at fever pitch. He felt himself becoming light headed, his skin prickled, he was falling deeper and deeper into the softness of the bed, as Dean prowled upwards over him, crawling across and up the bed, forcing him down and back, without ever once breaking the contact of the kiss.

The handprint on his shoulder was fizzing with sensation, he was sure if he looked down it would be sparkling like a glitter ball, but he was intent on Cas. He pulled back, and looked at him, with a satisfied little grin, he winked at himself. He’d always been a damned fine kisser. Cas was goo. He lay on the pillow, eyes closed, those soft pink lips darker than normal from the subtle bruise of the kiss. The eyes opened slowly and focussed on his face, hands raising to touch his face, he allowed the briefest of contacts, but this was Cas’ time. 

“Hands behind your head, Cas,” He did not need to do it, as Cas was hesitatingly compliant, but he enjoyed seeing him jump, so he dropped his tone and added, “NOW!”

Cas ignored the awkwardness he felt and laced his own fingers behind his head. He swallowed heavily, lips parted, eyes darting, trying to read Dean’s face. Dean knew he was about to speak, say something stupid, ask a dumb question… destroy the moment. He cocked one eyebrow and Cas immediately closed his mouth, and looked slightly shame-faced, dropped his head back, eyes averted towards the ceiling. The burn of humiliation was at once unpleasant and utterly fantastic.

This time Dean, allowed the laugh to surface. He moved slowly, suckling and nibbling, neck, shoulders, chest until he hovered lower, he listened carefully for the checks and changes in Cas’ breathing, the subtle little messages, what worked, what didn’t, all the time reading, learning. He found a nipple, hard, and goosebumped. The little catch in the throat, he nipped, and Cas arched, so he bit harder, and the little cry of shock became a moan. He chuckled again, and releasing the bite, he moved up, lips agonisingly close to Cas’ ear, breath tickling the hair. “Castiel,” his voice was low, mocking, “you liked that.”

The whimpered answer was impossible to decipher, but told him everything he needed to know, Cas was almost writhing. He glanced nervously, and caught the smug lopsided grin on Dean’s face. His whole vessel was a mass of nerve endings, and unlike humans who sense one at a time, Cas could feel every one. Air molecules pressed at him from all directions, some cool, some warm with radiated heat from Dean’s body and hands. The bed beneath him was soft, supporting, his own hair was at once soft and bristly against his palms and fingers, the air he sucked in stroked his tongue and felt cool in his throat. 

And then there was his touch, lips, fingers, knuckles, palms, leaving trails of sensation on his skin with every contact. He arched again, pressing into the fingertips casually stroking down his chest and stomach, as that mouth assaulted his again, and heard himself moan. The scratch when it came, when fingertips became nails, was a revelation, and then he felt the pinch of teeth on his bottom lip, and he was sure that noise could not have come from him. And then suddenly Dean was away, the loss of his body heat, made him shiver, and he opened his eyes, in time to see Dean resting back on his heels, moving to straddle his lower legs. 

“Eyes closed, Cas.”

How did he even know, Cas thought, he’s not even looking at me, and then as those fingertips scratched along the creases of his hips, the warm, moist, soft bobbly surface of Dean’s tongue touched the taut string of connecting skin just below the tip of his straining flesh, he complied with a deep sigh. The contact from the fingers on his skin was feather light, and his stomach muscles gave a virgin twitch at the contact. 

He was beautiful in that moment to Dean, who’s doubts and fears about what he was doing, although not gone, were so far diminished by the sight of Cas straining and lost under his ministrations that he could ignore them for now, and just enjoy his own artistry. Memories of how it felt to be sucked and milked, tricks learnt on the road over the many years were deployed. He knew Cas was longing to touch him, to be allowed to reach for his face, his hair, his hands, he could sense it. 

To Cas, Dean’s mouth and tongue felt like the burning of holy oil, hot, deadly, he began to rock into the mouth, in time to escalating suction, and swirl of the tongue. He knotted his knuckles tighter, to stop himself reaching down to stroke his fingers into the hair. He couldn’t, however, fight the urge to raise his head, and sneak a look. 

Adrenaline surged as he started. Those warm moss coloured eyes were staring straight at him, and as their gazes locked, yet again, he felt the pressure for release finally break, the involuntary contraction of muscles and the overwhelming flood of pleasure and warmth as he came, over and over he seemed to pump into the hot, wet mouth, throwing his head back and screaming Dean’s name like a prayer, as his balls were gently squeezed and strong fingers clutched at his hip with bruising intensity.

He felt his grace beginning to pulse and throb, and instinctively grabbing a startled Dean, he dragged him protectively towards him. “Close your eyes, Dean, close them, close them tight…” The intensity of the light, stung Dean’s eyes through his eyelids, it felt like a shockwave passing through him, and his body jerked compulsively in sudden ecstasy. He slumped forward, trying to catch himself before he fell onto Cas, who he knew was underneath him. 

His arms felt weak and he was sure he was going to crash down, his elbows locked at the last possible moment and jarred up into his shoulders. His mouth gaped as his chest heaved and he gasped for breath. He sighed as a gentle warmth enveloped him, and he felt the soft phantom brush of feathers on his back and sides, before his arms gave way gently and he dropped suddenly, managing to throw himself to the side, falling besides Cas onto the bed. 

For an eternity in a moment of time, they lay side by side, breathing heavily, tangled in each others limbs. Cas initiated the kiss this time, soft and slow, lips brushing, the salty tang of his own aftertaste mingled with sweet malty beer. Dean’s head dropped to his shoulder, and the spiky hair tickled his neck. He stroked his back and held him close, as he sensed him drift to sleep. He pulled the edge of the bed cover, dragging it up and over them both, and waited patiently for the afternoon to pass into night, knowing it would be morning before he would need to do or say anything, for now at least the problem had a damned fine solution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...or not [Problem? What Problem?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6637978/chapters/15186304></a>%20Problem?%20%20What%20Problem?%20<a%20href=)


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